


If Only I Was Sure

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Book 2: Wayward Son, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Communication Issues, Coping, If you haven’t read Wayward Son you may want to wait to read this, Love, M/M, NO DEFINITIVE NAMED SPOILERS BUT IT WAS INFLUENCED BY WAYWARD SON SO BE WARNED, Pre-Canon, Pre-Wayward Son, Relationship Issues, Simon POV only, WRITTEN AFTER READING WAYWARD SON, Wayward Son influence, complicated relationship, post carry on, post trauma, still pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: BE WARNED THIS WAS WRITTEN AFTER READING WAYWARD SON!! It takes place between Carry On and Wayward Son so there aren’t definitive, direct spoilers but the mood and tone and subject matter all relate to my reading of Wayward Son. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO HAVE ANY SPOILERS, EVEN IN MOOD OR TONE, WAIT TO READ THIS FIC AFTER YOU HAVE READ WAYWARD SON. Builds on issues at the end of Carry On that carry through to Wayward Son.Simon Snow may have saved the world but the world has changed for him. Battling dragons was much easier than confronting his own emotions. He’s not the Chosen One anymore but is it fair to let Baz choose him? A late night of introspection for Simon, after Baz leaves for the night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to @basicbanshee for her beta read of this and her enthusiastic support for posting it.  
I’ve been thinking about this all day and this story just poured out of me tonight.

**Simon**

The door shuts behind Baz and I rest my head against it. I have work to do for class tonight but not as much as I led him to think. 

I hate myself for doing this. I hate myself for lying. I suppose it’s not really lying. I _ do _ have reading to finish. 

But it’s not something that’ll take me all night. It’s not something I can’t do sitting next to Baz on the sofa. Or on my bed. 

He looks beautiful on my bed. Or in it. Or anywhere near it. Fuck, he looks beautiful all the time. So fucking perfect. 

Baz had his bag with him. He always brings it. Every time he comes. That’s Baz--always prepared for the possibility of staying over. Laptop, books, change of clothes. 

He has a stash of his posh toiletries in our bathroom. They’ve been there for months. 

I used to let him. I used to _ want _ him to stay. 

Fuck it all. I still want him to stay. 

I want so much from him. Too much. 

Baz gives.

He gives and he gives and he gives and all I do is take. 

I saw the look in his eyes, how the light faded out of him when I mentioned how much work I had to do by tomorrow. He just nodded his head, kissed my temple and started to pack up his laptop and power cord. 

I almost stopped him. Almost told him to stay anyway, to bring his laptop to bed and tap away at it while I finished my chapter. 

But I didn’t in the end. 

And now he’s gone and I want him back so badly. I want to open the door and rush down the stairs and call out his name. Make him turn around. 

Pull him into my arms. 

Snog him until he’s breathless and panting. 

Until I can’t catch my breath. Until my lips warm his and his hands slide up my back. 

And I’d drag him back in here by his belt loops. Push him against the wall and feel those strong arms around me, sink my fingers into his hair, press my body against his.

And he’d open his eyes and see me. 

Simon Snow. 

Just Simon Snow. No more. 

Just a hell of a lot less. 

I’m not the boy Baz fell in love with. I’m not who I was. I won’t ever be that person again. 

I’m a shadow of that person. I’m like the Humdrum now, I suppose. Isn’t that a joke?

_ I’m what’s left behind. _

I’m sure Baz doesn’t know what to think. Half the time I’m snogging him senseless and the rest of the time I’m pulling back like a Vestal Virgin. 

I mean, I am a virgin. So’s he, so it shouldn’t be that big a deal.

It’s not a big deal, not really. 

It’s not the virgin part that’s fucking me up. 

It’s me. I’m what’s fucking up. It’s what I’m good at now. Being a first rate fuck up. Top of the class for once. 

I used to be good at fighting. At doing what I was told. At following orders. 

Now I’m good at being a useless shit. 

With wings. 

And a fucking tail.

I push myself away from the door and stomp down the hallway to my room. I pull off my hoodie and toss it on the floor.

I’m hot. 

I don’t overheat like I used to anymore. Just like I don’t blur at the edges or shimmer when I’m worked up. No sparks shooting out of my fingers. 

Now I just get flushed and sweaty and my voice shakes. I mean, I always did that before too, but now it’s all that happens when I’m upset. That and the sinking feeling in my stomach and a pressure in my chest and the feeling that I’m a bottle of Coca-cola that’s been shaken up. 

Except the top never pops off the bottle. I never actually _ go off _anymore. I still feel like I could. The buildup is still there. 

But I’m just a blank. I can shout, I can slam doors. Punch my mattress. Or the wall. Pound my fists on my desk in frustration. Throw a book across the room (yes, I know it’s bad for the spine of the book) (Penny and Baz have both told me that) (That’s why I buy _ used books _).

But even then it’s still there. This bubbling feeling inside that I can’t get out.

I don’t know what I have to be angry about--I’ve got a nice flat. A good roommate. An absolutely fit and incredibly tolerant boyfriend.

And no magic. No mentor. I managed to kill the only one I ever had. The only person who took an interest in me. Who believed I had potential to be _ more. _

Which was bollocks. Even he said so at the end. That I wasn’t the Chosen One. That he couldn’t fix me. That I’m not fixable, I suppose. 

That he got me wrong. 

I flop down on my bed and press the heels of my hands on my eyes. It makes me see stars sometimes, when I do that. It doesn’t help anything. It just shuts the world away for a moment. 

I’m getting good at shutting things away. 

I sit up and lean back against the headboard, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to my chest. I drop my head forward and press my face into it. 

It’s smells of cedar and bergamot. It smells like Baz.

I sink my face further into it, pressing my nose into the fabric. I imagine it’s his shirt (it’s too rough a fabric to be his shirt but I can pretend). 

I imagine he’s here next to me. I can feel his fingertips running up and down my back. I can hear his voice. _ “Deep breath, Snow. Come on now. In and out.” _

He’s learned that. Knows exactly what to do when I start freaking out now. When I pull into myself. When it all gets to be too much. When I think about all the things I’ve got locked away in my head. When I let myself open that door and look inside and it all overwhelms me.

I just _ take _. 

I’ve got nothing left to give. 

I just want. 

I want to fill the hole in me._ “I’m what’s left when you’re done.” _That’s what the fucking Humdrum had said. 

I’m done and I’m what’s left. A nothing. A cipher. 

_ “What do holes want,” _ Baz had asked. Not to get bigger. I was the one who was right. Holes want to be _ filled _. 

Baz would fill this hole in me if he could. He’d fill me up with magic, love, food, whatever he can think of. 

He’s tried. Tried pushing some of his magic in me. Tried to send even a tendril of it under my skin. 

It made my hand feel warm but that was it. Nothing more. 

He’s plied me with food. 

With activities--films, plays, day trips sightseeing around London. Tried to fill my world with new experiences. 

He’s tried to fill that emptiness with love. 

And somehow that’s the worst. That’s when I feel like a fucking black hole. Like I’m the Humdrum and I’m going to suck him dry. Suck all the love and care and devotion out of him and he’ll get tired of trying. Tired of dealing with me. 

But he keeps trying. 

It makes me love him more, if that were even possible. I don’t think I love anything as much as I love Baz Pitch. 

Not even magic. I can survive without magic. I mean I’m here, aren’t I?

I never wanted to lose it. I couldn’t imagine a world where I didn’t have it. But here we are. In the unimaginable territory. 

I don’t want to imagine a world without Baz in my life. 

I don’t want there to be a day in the future where I get some circular from the Watford alumni department and see a photo of Baz Pitch and his lovely husband. Read about some amazing magickal discovery he’s made in one of Penny’s_ Magickal Records _. Run into him at some bookstore on a rainy Sunday afternoon. 

I don’t want to imagine that but that would be what’s best for him, now wouldn’t it? He’d be free to do what he likes, go where he wants to go, be with whoever he wants. 

Not be saddled with a wretched know-nothing who can’t even spell his own wings invisible. Who can’t create a proposal spell. Who can’t fight a duel for him. Can’t bond in five dimensions or whatever Penny’s parents have done. 

I can’t do any of that. 

All I can do is be a drag on him. 

It’s all that fills my mind anymore. What a drag I am on Baz. And Penny, but mostly Baz.

It wasn’t like this before. 

Before all it took was Baz reaching out and grasping hold of my hand to make all the static and noise go away. I’d hold his hand and the calm would seep into me. He couldn’t push magic into me but he could push love. He was my lifeline. I’d hold his hand for hours, focusing on the rough calluses on his fingers, the cool slide of his palm on mine, the way he’d squeeze my hand when he’d feel my heart rate start to go up. 

He’d press his mouth to mine and the world around us would fade to black. 

Not black. To a sky full of stars. 

Kissing Baz would take me back to that starry magic in our room. I’d close my eyes and feel myself floating, the only thing anchoring me the touch of his lips on mine and his hands on my body. I couldn’t think of anything but him, his touch, his scent, the softness of his lips, my hands tracing the planes of his muscles, sliding across his skin. 

I don’t know exactly when that started changing. When the months went by and the mundanity of the day to day crept up on me. When every day faded into the next. 

When the realization that I couldn’t do anything on my own really sunk in. When I’d be trapped in the flat, dying to go for a walk or a run or to get a fucking bag of crisps from the shop on the corner but I couldn’t--because Baz and Penny weren’t home to spell my wings invisible. 

The nights I’d skip the group study sessions because Baz had night class and Penny had her own study sessions and I didn’t want to bother them into coming home to spell me tidy again.

It made me realize they’re stuck with me. For life. Unless I buck up and get Dr. Wellbelove to take the wings and tail off for good, they’re stuck with me forever. 

Their sad, Normal friend. 

Well, not Normal. Not with the fucking dragon appendages. More like their sad freak of a friend. I’m not Normal. I’m not magickal. 

I don’t fit in anywhere. And I can’t be left to my own devices. Me--who used to get sent on covert missions for the Mage as an eleven year old. Me--making my own way to Watford since I was twelve. Me--who took out a whole horde of orc-upines on my own at thirteen. I could go on and on. I’ve got to be watched like I’m a fucking toddler now. Can’t even be trusted to pick up the mail without being spelled up. 

It’s worse than being a toddler. Little kids learn to tie their shoes with magic. They learn to button up their clothes that way, even before they come to Watford. It’s part of every aspect of their lives. 

That’s when things started to change, when I couldn’t keep my mind a blank anymore. 

When I couldn't see the stars.

I’d be kissing Baz and I’d think about it all. How even a night at the cinema involved planning and spells and whatnot. How we’d have to look for the empty cars on the tube. How my wings don’t quite fit in the Jag. How he can’t go on a swanky ski vacation because he’d have to be fussed about my wings. 

No trips to Ibiza with the dragon boyfriend and his unpredictable wingspan. How every facet of his life would have to be altered to accommodate me. 

Who would want that? Who would want _ me _? 

Baz would notice right away. “Where’s your mind off to, Simon?” he’d whisper into my skin, breathe into my hair. 

“It’s nothing. Just got distracted for an instant.”

He’d raise that damn eyebrow of his and smirk. “Hmm. My charms not keeping you occupied enough then?” And then he’d tangle his fingers in my hair, light my skin on fire with his touch and for a moment--for a few moments--I’d forget. I’d be back to thinking only of him. And what he was doing to my body, the heat he was bringing to my chest, my belly, my heart. 

But then he’d go off to class or home for the weekend and all those thoughts would crowd into my head, as if the lock to the door that kept them shut away in my head had broken. 

He’d spend nights at my place, my chest pressed up against his back, my face buried in his neck, arms circling around him, his cold feet tangled up with mine. I’d savor the touch of him. Try to etch those moments in my mind. Keep them, like photographs, to take out at some later date, when he’d grown tired of it all but I’d still have the memory of him. 

It’d keep me awake. The thinking. 

But I couldn’t bear the thought of not having him there with me. Selfish, I know. 

His touch seared through me but more and more it reminded me I wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth the effort. I’d try and lose myself in sensation. I’d try to make him happy, give him a few moments of bliss. 

I wanted to do it. I wanted to make him feel all the love I had for him. 

But he wanted to share that with me. He wanted to give that love back to me. 

And that’s when I’d pull away. 

The most intimate moment of my life was with Baz in our room in Mummer’s House, the night I shared my magic with him and he pulled the stars right out of the sky for us. He took my magic in and made it feel _ good. _ Made it feel right, easy, controlled. Like I was the source and he was the control. It worked for _ us _, not just me. 

It was a heady sensation. I’d give anything to have those moments back. That kind of connection. 

It was everything.

I can never have that again. 

And neither can Baz. At least not with me. 

I know magicians can feel each other’s magic, especially when they’re bonded, after they’re married. 

Baz will never have that if he stays with me. 

I’ll never have that with anyone, ever. 

I can live with that. 

But I don’t think I can live with the thought of Baz never experiencing something that intimate again. 

I think about that a lot. 

I don’t know what sex is supposed to feel like. Not really. I mean, I know what I feel like when I wank (which isn’t often) (I was always afraid I’d go off at Watford) (kept me from doing it much) (I don’t quite know what keeps me from doing it so much now that that’s not a risk anymore).

But I do know that magic plays a part. I’m sure of it. Maybe more so if you’re bonded but I’m sure at a moment of such passion, when you open yourself up so wholly to the other person, when you are so close--physically, emotionally, mentally--that magic must play some role, add some dimension to it all. 

That’s not going to happen with me. Another thing Baz will miss out on because he’s saddled with a Normal boyfriend who can’t sense the magic in him. 

I know there are some mages that marry Normals. In America. Penny fusses about it all the time. 

But we aren’t in America. And Baz knows what my magic felt like. He’s had that intimate communion with me, even if it had nothing to do with sex at the time.  
  
I know he’ll think about it.  
  
How can he not?

I think about it and I try not to think about things. Baz thinks about _ everything _. He overthinks things. 

So I tried not to focus on it. I tried to drown myself in the sensations. In the arousal. In the feel of him. The feel of him touching me. 

I’d try to push my way forward, try to make myself keep going, to cross that threshold that was holding me back. 

He’d meet me there every time. Gratefully, enthusiastically, tenderly. 

Never pressuring me. Always following my lead. 

And I wanted him. I still want him. I’ve never wanted anything like I want Baz Pitch. He’s the most gorgeous fucking person I’ve ever met. He’s perfect. Smooth skin, taut muscles contracting under the surface, eyes I can lose myself in, hair like silk, a body so fit it’s criminal. I can't keep my eyes off him. 

But he’s so much more than that. He’s got a brilliant mind. A heart that’s soft as butter. So tender. A romantic sap who flays himself over perceived inadequacies but is so inexplicably in love with me that he practically casts sonnets. 

He’s everything I could ever want. He’s everything to me. I’d lay my heart on a platter for him. I’d let him Turn me just for the chance that we’d match again. 

So I’d try to do more, go further, take one more step in the direction of intimacy. He’d follow and then there would always be a point where I’d stop. Freeze up. Lose the drive. 

Couldn’t let myself do it. Couldn’t let myself be seen that way. There are no barriers when you have sex--in that moment Baz would see all of me. 

All that was lacking. The magic that wouldn’t flare in response to his. The superficial connection that was nothing like what we had before. 

The pathetic Normal that I am. The has-been. The failure. The one with no future. 

I wasn’t ready to be seen like that. 

I’m still not ready. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be. 

I don’t want Baz to see me like that. To see what I’ve lost. What he’s lost. 

I’m going to lose him anyway. He’s going to finally get tired of the caretaking, the burden of Simon Snow. 

I’d like to at least keep that memory alive in his head. Keep that as the moment we shared, when all the boundaries between us fell away and we finally truly saw each other. 

That’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever shared with anyone. Anything I do now will always be less. 

It’s what holds me back. That thought. That realization. 

I told him he was pushing me. 

I know he wasn’t. Baz doesn’t push me. He doesn't pressure me. It was always me. Not that he didn’t go along, what healthy, hormonal twenty-year-old wouldn’t?

But I was the one who made the first moves. I kissed him first, didn’t I? I was the one who tried to press forward until I hit the wall. 

And now, when he tries to capture even the little we had before, I push him away. I tell him he’s pushing me too hard. I turn it all back on him. 

And little by little he’s been pulling back. Doesn’t try as hard. Reaches and then pulls his hand away. 

And I let him. 

I ache to reach out to him. I want nothing more than to feel his fingers in my hair, his arms around me, his body pressed against mine as we fall asleep. To feel him around me, alongside me, in me. 

But it isn’t fair to him. 

His first should be memorable. His first should be magical. 

And I’m not that. 

I don’t know when I started crying. The pillow is wet with my tears. 

I know I should let him go. What’s that saying? _ “If you love something let it go.” _I don’t remember the rest. 

I love Baz. With every breath in my body. To the depths of my soul. 

That’s why I should let him go. 

I’m holding him back. 

But I just want a few more days of him. A few more nights when I can still know he’s mine. 

I’m hopelessly in love with him.

And I’ve never felt more hopeless.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz's side of the story

Chapter 2

**Baz **

I always pause on the steps, as if Simon will open the door and ask me to come back in.

He never does.

I still do it. I still wait.

Hoping that tonight will be the night he opens the door and beckons me back in.

Back into his flat. Back into his arms. Into his bed.

Into his heart.

That he would let me back into his head.

I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I thought I knew Simon. I thought I knew how to read him. Every mannerism. Every break in his voice.

How he balances on one foot like a bloody flamingo when he puts his socks on. Buttons his shirt from the bottom up. Runs a hand through his curls when he’s nervous. Grabs them when he’s agitated. The way he juts his chin or narrows his eyes.

He still does those things but there are so many moments when he drifts away from me. When I don’t recognize the expression on his face. Can’t see through the bleakness in his eyes.

Some days I wish he would just shout at me. Like he used to. When he’d get so worked up he’d shimmer and the accusations and insults would pour out of him. I know how to fight with Simon. I know how to rile him up, escalate a situation to make him go off.

I’m used to saying things to aggravate him. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to get a rise out of Simon. I’m good at it.

I’m not good at this.

I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know _how_ to ask. How to let him know I’m concerned about him but not make him feel weak, broken, less.

Because he’s none of those things.

He’s still Simon Snow. He’s still the hero of this story.

What happens to heroes once they’ve saved the day? They ride off into the sunset and we never hear about them again. 

Do they fade away? Do they go off and live a normal life? Do they pound the walls in frustration because all they know is how to save other people and they don’t know how to save themselves?

I don’t know.

I feel like I don’t know anything and that’s unnerving.

I wish he’d clench his fists and jut his jaw and tell me what I’m doing wrong.

Tell me how to reach you, Simon.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Cure song “Close To Me”


End file.
